A Regency Captain's Prize: The Captain's Forbidden Miss / His Mask of Retribution

He felt the register of surprise, along with a sliver of excitement at the prospect of what it could be that she wished to tell him.

‘If that is what you desire.’

He saw Molyneux standing not so far away, the Lieutenant’s gaze darting between the girl and Dammartin.

‘There is a river down through the woodland.’

She nodded her agreement.

Dammartin headed towards the trees, leaving Molyneux staring after them.

They walked in silence through the woodland, down the slope that ran towards the river, with only the tread of their boots over soil and the snapping of twigs between them, until they left the clearing where the 8th Dragoons were camped some distance behind at the top of the gorge. Slightly to the east they could hear the sounds of the infantry’s camp, but it was not close enough to challenge their privacy.

He led her to the edge of a fast-flowing river, to where great boulders of rock clustered along its bank.

‘We shall not be overheard here,’ he said, and, leaning easily against a giant rock, looked out over the river.

Back up through the trees, from where they had come, he could just about see the carmine-coloured lapels of his men’s jackets as they moved about the camp. Had the red lapels not been there, the green of their uniform would have made an effective camouflage even though the woodland was bare and barren. Beyond the great stones the water flowed fast despite the lack of rain. In the fading light it was a deep greeny grey that foamed to white where the water splashed hard over its rocky bed. The noise of it was so loud and gushing as to be almost a roar.

Josie turned from the river to face him, feeling suddenly nervous. ‘There is not much time, Captain Dammartin. The daylight shall soon be gone and I would prefer to be back at the camp before it is dark.’ She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and prepared to speak the words she had come here to say.

He did not look round, just stayed where he was. ‘You are recovered from last night, mademoiselle?’

The question unsettled her, reminding of things best forgotten: bandits and nightmares and the warmth of Dammartin’s body sharing her bed. ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

His eyes met hers, and they were a clear honey brown, rich with emotion that she could not name—compassion, affinity, protectiveness. ‘I am glad.’

And to Josie there was an intensity about the moment that set the butterflies fluttering in her stomach so that she had to look away.

The water rushed on. Somewhere in the distance was the thumping of axes splitting wood, and through the trees ahead she could see the sun was setting: a vibrant red halo surrounding the dark branches of the trees, as if a fire had touched against them, deep and hot and burning.

Still leaning his elbows on the stone boulder with the rosy pink light softening his face, he appeared to Josie ruggedly handsome. ‘What is it, then, that you wish to say?’

She turned her mind from its observations, reminding herself of why she had come here. ‘I wished to ask you of this…this accusation that you level at my father.’

He resumed his study of the river scene before him. ‘It is no mere accusation, mademoiselle, but the truth.’ And there was a weariness in his voice.

‘That is your belief, but it is not correct, sir.’

‘And this is what you wished to tell me?’ He stopped leaning against the rock and turned to face her, and she could see that anything of softness had vanished, that he was once again the dark and dangerous French Captain who had stormed the monastery in Telemos.

‘I did not come here to argue,’ she said quickly.

‘Really?’ He arched an arrogant eyebrow.

She glanced away, suddenly very aware that they were alone down here. ‘Did you witness your father’s death?’

There was only the sound of the river in reply.

She thought she saw the flicker of pain in his eyes, so brief that she could not be sure.

The muscle in his jaw clenched. ‘I did not.’

‘But you were there, with him, at Oporto?’

‘Unfortunately, no.’

The smallest of pauses, before she asked gently, ‘Then how do you know the manner of his death?’

‘Mademoiselle,’ he said with the hard cynical breath of a laugh, ‘all of France knows what your father did to him!’

She bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. ‘Then, there were witnesses…to the crime?’

‘Yes, there was a witness,’ he said harshly. ‘An honourable man who is beyond reproach, if it is his word that you are seeking to discredit.’

His words stung at her. ‘What is there of honour in dishonesty?’ she replied.

A twig snapped close by, and Josie jumped. Both of them peered in the direction of the trees from whence it had come.

There was only silence and the dying light and stillness.

‘It is nothing,’ said Dammartin dismissively. ‘There is nothing to be gained in this, mademoiselle, we should return to the camp. The light begins to fade, and you said yourself that you are in a hurry to be back there.’ He made to move.

‘No, wait.’ She stepped forwards, blocking his path, needing to show him that he was wrong. ‘Before he died my father told me that you were an honourable man. He bade me trust you. If your accusation is true, I do not understand why he would say such a thing. When he saw you…when you came into that room in the monas-tery…when it was all but over, there was nothing of guilt or regret or fear in his eyes. He looked at you with respect. Given what you say, sir, how do you explain that?’

‘I cannot, but it does not mean that he was innocent.’

‘But will you not at least admit that his was not behaviour in keeping with a man that is guilty?’

‘It was not in keeping with what is expected of a man that is guilty,’ said Dammartin carefully.

‘He was dying, for goodness’ sake!’ she said, and the pain stabbed in her heart. ‘Do you really think that he would have bothered with pretence at such a time? What would have been the point?’

‘As you said, Lieutenant Colonel Mallington was dying, and leaving his beloved daughter alone with the son of the man he had murdered. I think he had every reason to behave as he did.’

‘You did not know him,’ she said quietly, and stared up into his now-shadowed face. ‘He was not such a man.’

‘You are his daughter. Of course you do not wish to believe the unpleasantness of the truth.’

‘No, you are wrong.’ But with the denial came the first whisper of doubt in Josie’s mind.

‘You were not there. You can never really know what happened in Oporto last year, can you, mademoiselle?’

She bent her head, pressing the tips of her fingers to the tightness across her forehead. The thought came to her in a flash, and she wondered why she had not realised it before. Her father’s journals—a log of all that had happened to Lieutenant Colonel Mallington and his men over the years—recorded by her papa’s own hand in book after precious book. She raised her chin, staring at him with renewed confidence, feeling the excitement of her realisation flow through the entirety of her body.

‘Oh, but you see, I can, sir,’ she exclaimed. ‘Every detail of every day.’ She smiled her relief.

It seemed that Dammartin’s lungs did not breathe, that his heart did not beat. ‘And how might that be, mademoiselle?’ he asked in a deathly quiet voice.